“I thought you liked Mabel,” said his mother; and John answered, “So I do like her, but for pity’s sake, is a man obliged to marry every girl he likes? Mabel does very well to tease and amuse one, but when you come to the marrying part, why, that’s another thing.”
“And what objection have you to her,” continued his mother, growing very fidgety and red.
“Several,” returned John, “She has altogether too many aches and pains to suit me; then she has no spirit whatever; and last, but not least, I like somebody else. So, mother mine, you may as well give up all hopes of that hundred thousand down in Alabama, for I shall never marry Mabel Ross, never.”
Mrs. Livingstone was now not only red and fidgety but very angry, and, in an elevated tone of voice, she said, “I s’pose it’s Nellie Douglass you mean, but if you knew all of her that I do, I reckon——”
Here she paused, insinuating that she could tell something dreadful, if she would! But John Jr. took no notice of her hints, and when he got a chance, he replied, “You are quite a Yankee at guessing, for if Nellie will have me, I surely will have her.”
“Marry her, then,” retorted his mother—“marry her with all her poverty, but for heaven’s sake, don’t give so much encouragement to a poor defenseless girl.”
Wishing Mabel in Guinea, and declaring he’d neither speak to nor look at her again, if common civilities were construed into encouragement, John Jr. strode out of the room, determining, as the surest method of ending the trouble, to go forthwith to Nellie, and in a plain, straight-forward way make her an offer of himself. With him, to will was to do, and in about an hour he was descending the long hill which leads into Frankfort. Unfortunately, Nellie had gone for a few weeks to Madison, and again mounting Firelock, the young man galloped back, reaching home just as the family were sitting down to supper. Not feeling hungry, and wishing to avoid, as long as possible, the sight of his mother and Mabel, whom he believed were leagued against him, he repaired to the parlor, whistling loudly, and making much more noise than was at all necessary.
“If you please, Mr. Livingstone, won’t you be a little more quiet, for my head aches so hard to-night,” said a languid voice, from the depths of the huge easy-chair which stood before the glowing grate.
Glancing toward what he had at first supposed to be a bundle of shawls, John Jr. saw Mabel Ross, her forehead bandaged up and her lips white as ashes, while the purple rings about her heavy eyes, told of the pain she was enduring.
“Thunder!” was John’s exclamation, as he strode from the room, slamming together the door with unusual force.